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Blazing Bedtime Stories
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Look what people are saying about these talented authors…
Kimberly Raye
“Kimberly Raye is hot, hot, hot!”
—New York Times bestselling author Vicki Lewis Thompson
“Amusing, erotic…Raye writes a very naughty book!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
Leslie Kelly
“One Wild Wedding Night features sexy and fun stories with likable characters…. Oh, this one is definitely wild, but even better, it also aims for the heart.”
—Mrs. Giggles
“Filled with humor and heart, Slow Hands, by Leslie Kelly, is a complete delight.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
Rhonda Nelson
“Feeling the Heat (4.5), by Rhonda Nelson, is wonderful. Filled with laughter and heart, the book flies by, and the romance is fantastic.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“The Loner (4), by Rhonda Nelson, is a highly romantic story with two heartwarming characters and a surprise ending.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
USA TODAY bestselling author Kimberly Raye has always been an incurable romantic. While she enjoys reading all types of fiction, her favorites, the books that touch her soul, are romance novels. From sexy to thrilling, sweet to humorous, she likes them all. But what she really loves is writing romance—the hotter the better! Kim lives deep in the heart of the Texas Hill Country with her very own cowboy, Curt, and their young children. You can visit her online at www.kimberlyraye.com or at www.myspace.com/kimberlyrayebooks.
Leslie Kelly is an award-winning author of more than thirty books for Harlequin Blaze, Harlequin Temptation and HQN Books. Leslie resides in Maryland with her husband of twenty-two years and their five girls: three human and two fuzzy and yappy. (Okay, they’re all yappy….) Please visit Leslie at her Web site www.lesliekelly.com, or hang out in the “jungle” where she blogs with pals Carly Phillips, Janelle Denison and Julie Leto: www.plotmonkeys.com.
Waldenbooks bestselling author, past RITA® Award nominee and Romantic Times BOOKreviews Reviewers’ Choice nominee Rhonda Nelson writes hot romantic comedy for Harlequin Blaze and other Harlequin imprints. In addition to a writing career, she has a husband, two adorable kids, a black Lab and a beautiful bichon frise who dogs her every step. She and her family make their chaotic but happy home in a small town in northern Alabama. She loves to hear from her readers, so be sure to check her out at www.readRhondaNelson.com or visit her group blog at www.soapboxqueens.com.
Kimberly Raye
Leslie Kelly, Rhonda Nelson
Blazing Bedtime Stories
CONTENTS
ONCE UPON A BITE
Kimberly Raye
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
MY, WHAT A BIG…YOU HAVE!
Leslie Kelly
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
SEXILY EVER AFTER
Rhonda Nelson
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
ONCE UPON A BITE
Kimberly Raye
For all my Love at First Bite fans,
your e-mails and letters have meant
the world to me!
Thanks, and here we go again…
And for Rhonda and Leslie,
I’m so thrilled to be included with two
of my all-time-favorite Blaze Babes!
Prologue
“THERE ARE ONE HUNDRED and seventy million, seven hundred and fifty-nine thousand, one hundred and twenty-three people having sex at this exact moment,” Burt reported.
Burt was a short, bald guy, who fidgeted as he stood in the middle of LB Patterson’s office. The man wore his usual blue leisure suit, a dozen chains around his neck and a look that said How’s it hanging, baby? “That’s not counting several thousand ménage à trois, a few hundred group orgies and a woman up in Jersey getting up close and personal with an authentic African python named Daisy. Needless to say, I’ve got animal control on stand-by,” he added.
“Not bad.” LB—known affectionately as Lover Boy and officially as Cupid—punched a few buttons on his state-of-the-art computer and pulled up a spreadsheet. Based on last year’s statistics, the sex was up by over a million. A grin tugged at his lips. “We’re definitely doing something right.”
“I wouldn’t pop open the champagne yet,” Burt continued. “The number of people doing it is definitely on the rise, but less than one third are actually in love. Except the Jersey lady. She’s definitely head-over-heels for Daisy.”
LB’s gaze swiveled to the Love category and a bolt of panic went through him. When it came to amore, he was the head honcho. The big cheese. The MIC. “But that’s down by half.”
“I told you not to crack open the bottle. Then again, you could probably use a drink right about now. Venus isn’t going to be too happy.”
Venus headed the Interaction division for Humans, Inc., a worldwide conglomerate that micromanaged the human race. She was just one of a handful of upper-tier management, but she was no one to mess with. There was also Jupiter, CEO and mega control freak. Mars was in charge of war and domestic conflicts. Vesta ran morality. Juno monitored reality TV (rumor had it that her two-timing hubby, Jupiter, had a thing for the newest Bachelorette and she was determined to catch him screwing around). Bacchus handled addiction. Mercury headed up postal workers. And then there were a half dozen others who managed various aspects of human existence.
LB stared at the numbers again and the Starbucks special blend he’d sucked down earlier started to churn in his stomach.
Contrary to popular myth, Venus wasn’t warm or elegant or Miss Touchy-Feely. She was cold, stuck-up and a certifiable ballbuster when she didn’t get her way. And her way was dominating the top statistical tier of the organization.
Even more, she wasn’t just LB’s boss. She was the woman who’d endured hours and hours of labor, a fat backside and swollen ankles—all on his behalf.
“Holy shit,” LB muttered. “Mom’s going to fry my ass faster than I can say ‘till death do us part.’”
Literally.
In addition to being blessed with ethereal beauty, Venus was notorious for borrowing Jupiter’s lightning bolt. She also had a black belt in guilt. If the fire didn’t end his miserable existence, the mega-dose of “I can’t believe my own son is stabbing me in the back and making me the laughingstock of the company” was sure to do the trick.
“Nice knowing you, buddy.” Burt shrugged. His gold chains caught the early-morning light that pushed through the wall-to-wall windows. Light danced across the ceiling. “Listen, do you think you might put in a good word for me before she smokes you?” He glanced at the window. “I’m the only sex manager in history who isn’t a member of the mile high club because I’m afraid to fly.” He glanced at the window that overlooked Chicago (it was a far cry from Rome and an up-close view of the Colosseum, but hey, we’re talking the twenty-first century). “This isn’t the top floor, but I could make it work.”
“Get out.”
He shrugged. “You need some quiet time to reflect before you bite the bullet. I understand. Think about the office. I could hook you up with that cute little receptionist down in addiction. She’s been wanting to do you for ages.”
“Out.”
The door closed and LB shifted his attention to the numbers scrolling across his computer screen.
Sex? Way, way up.
Conversation? Not as sky-high, but still higher than last year.
Internet chat? Always on the rise.
Hell, even cuddling was holding its own.
But his baby, his pride and joy, his livelihood, had taken a nosedive straight to the bottom of the list. And he was responsible.
People just didn’t believe anymore, and he couldn’t say he blamed them. They lived in an era of instant, effortless gratification. From food to shopping, applying for a mortgage to sex. It was all just a mouse-click away. A person could order a pizza, buy the latest bestseller, pay bills and jack off, all without leaving his or her chair.
Love was different. Love required time. Energy. Effort. Even more, love required faith.
That was the real problem. People just didn’t believe. They were disheartened, disillusioned and just plain pissed. Which explained the newest What the hell is this? memo he’d received yesterday from his dear mother.
He keyed in the Web address referenced on the note. His screen shimmered and flashed as the Web site loaded.
A split-second later, kissmyasscupid.com blazed in black letters across the header, along with a flashing red heart. “Love Stinks” started to play and the heart cracked in two.
Ouch.
He scrolled down to the three video finalists for the site’s current anti-Valentine’s Day contest. They featured three women—the worst of the worst when it came to non-believers—who despised V-day. They bashed. They scoffed. They bitched about bad dates and loser boyfriends and meaningless one night stands. One even pitched a few handfuls of spaghetti and some gonzo meatballs at the guy doing the video.
They were a prime example of why his numbers were way down.
And…the fastest way to convince Venus to give him a second chance.
The moment the idea waltzed into his head, he should have pushed it back out. Really. It was hard enough helping out the ones who actually wanted to find the big L.
At the same time, if he could work his magic with this trio of die-hard disbelievers and give them their very own happily-everafters, then he could prove his worth to the company. Even more, he could convince his mother that the apple didn’t fall that far from the tree. Then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to pop a valium before the next Sunday dinner.
If not?
LB forced the thought aside. His numbers might be down, but his faith wasn’t. While 99.99 percent of the world categorized love as the stuff of fairy tales and cheesy chick flicks, he knew better. Love was real. Powerful. Magical.
Love did make the world go round. And it was high time the contest entrants at kissmyasscupid.com learned that firsthand.
1
“I’M GIVING UP SEX FOR GOOD.” The declaration came from Shay Briggs, beauty consultant and owner of Skin Deep, the one and only full-service spa in Skull Creek, Texas. “Out of the game, on the wagon, end of story,” she vowed as she smoothed the cucumber facial onto the woman stretched out on the table in front of her.
Sue Ann Peters licked at the green glob near the corner of her mouth. “Yum. What’s in this?”
“Cucumbers, aloe and my secret ingredient.”
“Edible?”
“Only if you want chest hair and an Adam’s apple.” Sue Ann sputtered and floundered for a nearby water bottle, and Shay smiled. “It has a special testosterone supplement that stimulates pheromones which are rumored to help shrink pores.”
The young woman sucked down several long sips. “Testosterone can do that?”
“Not all by itself. But mixed with cucumbers, aloe and a few other ingredients, it’s a definite maybe. I’m featuring it in next week’s column.” In addition to running Skin Deep, Shay contributed beauty tidbits for the Skull Creek Gazette.
It was a far cry from the stories she’d written as a kid—wild, fantastic stories of love and romance and adventure—and not half as interesting, but at least she was still writing. It was her only consolation during those rare moments when she became convinced that her life totally sucked.
Like now.
Shay fought down a sudden surge of self-pity and tried to focus on the positive. “I do still have a column, don’t I?” she went on. “You’re not handing me a pink slip because of the Bobby Barnes incident.”
“Of course not.” Sue Ann was Shay’s best friend and editor at the Gazette. “Our readers love Beauty Bites. It’s one of our prime features. Second only to Lazarus Buckner’s column. No one beats Buckner in the numbers.” Lazarus was a retired gastrointestinal specialist who did a weekly report called “People Pipes.” “The retirement home ordered an extra fifty papers last week just for the ‘Our Friend, Flatulence’ piece.”
“Any extras sold because of my ‘Trick that Trunk’ article?”
“No, but I’m sure every woman in town is slathering on the Crisco for a smoother, softer tush.”
If only.
After the past two days, Shay seriously doubted that the women of Skull Creek would ever take her beauty advice again. She’d lost their faith, and all because of Bobby.
The low-down, dirty, son of a snake.
Shay gave herself a great big mental kick in the butt and blinked away the sudden burning in her eyes. What the hell was wrong with her? She didn’t cry over a man. She didn’t cry, period. Her mother had taught her that a long time ago.
“Never let ’em see you weep, dear. Smile and bat your eyes and make them regret ever walking away.”
Which is exactly what her mother had done. Five times now, to be exact, and all because she’d fallen for the wrong men. Bad boy types who’d oozed sex appeal and charm. Men who’d been more interested in the night rather than the morning after.
Men like Bobby Dean Barnes.
Bobby was tall, dark and handsome and the latest on Shay’s ever-growing list of failed relationships. Instead of sticking around for breakfast the next morning, he’d written a cryptic We’re done, gotta run in red lipstick on the bedroom mirror.
“My life is a total train wreck.”
“I’ll give you train wreck. Erwin and Eunice Mcclusky are getting a divorce.”
“But they’ve been married over sixty years.”
“Sixty-three, to be exact. It seems Eunice decided that she’s tired of faking it. She wants a man who can satisfy her, at least that’s what she told Maudette Cranberry. Ever since Erwin had his hip replacement, he just hasn’t been able to hit the spot like he used to. So she’s dumping him. Which means that my front page article featuring Skull Creek’s oldest lovebirds is a crock. I have exactly six days to come up with a new piece for the Valentine’s Day issue. Something sweet and sexy and romantic.” Sue Ann sighed. “Now that’s a train wreck. You’re just experiencing some minor derailment.”
Shay stiffened and gathered her determination. “You’re right. Sure, my bank account is empty and my appointment book is empty, and my favorite shirt has a tomato sauce stain the size of Texas…But it isn’t the end of the world. Things could be worse.” Much worse, she reminded herself. She could be starving in a third world country or enslaved by some Colombian drug lord or trapped in a freezer full of Ben & Jerry’s.
“Did you try the club soda and lemon juice?” Sue Ann’s voice killed her rampant imagination.
“I’ve tried everything. It won’t budge. Next time I’ll save my meltdown for the monthly weenie roast instead of the VFW’s annual spaghetti dinner.”
“Trust me, it wouldn’t have been half as interesting. Seeing that jackass Bobby Dean get his ass kicked with a handful of mega-sized meatballs was priceless. A weenie doesn’t pack near t
he punch. He’s got a black eye and a concussion. Boy, when you reared back and nailed him—”
“Can we skip the details, please?” Especially when each one was already branded into Shay’s memory. It was a reoccurring play-by-play sequence of the lowest moment of her life. Second only to crawling into bed with Bobby Dean in the first place. “I never should have slept with him. Everything was perfect until then.” They’d dated for two months. They’d gone on picnics and caught every movie at the Paladium. They’d had romantic dinners and long walks in the park. Which had all led her to one conclusion—that Bobby Dean Barnes was more than a bad boy. He had a heart underneath his good looks and the sex appeal, and he actually liked her.
She’d given in, slept with him, and he’d broken up with her.
Because Shay Briggs—once-upon-a-time homecoming queen and prom princess, three-time winner of Skull Creek’s infamous Miss Pumpkin and Miss Cattle Guard pageants, and the only contestant to ever win Travis County Rodeo Darling twice—was the absolute worst in bed.